


Senseless

by htebazytook



Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Emyn Muil, First Time, M/M, Quest fic, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-28 16:49:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/309966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/htebazytook/pseuds/htebazytook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>Title: </b> Senseless<br/><b>Author: </b>htebazytook<br/><b>Rating: </b> light R<br/><b>Disclaimer: </b> <b>Pairing: </b> Frodo/Sam<br/><b>Time Frame: </b> Questslash, somewhere after the end of FOTR and before the beginning of TTT.  Mostly book-verse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Senseless

**Author's Note:**

> The Ring messes Frodo up, and Sam fixes it.

The tomorrows creep onward, and Frodo feels nothing anymore. He isn't sure exactly how it happened, only knows that somewhere after Moria the magnitude of his errand had really sunk in, and a sense of quiet acceptance had overtaken him. There's fear and frustration and selfish regret on the edges of his thought, but they seldom register entirely. He supposes sometimes that he feels things vicariously through his companions, watching them for appropriate responses to every new trial they face. The way they still retain such a sense of life baffles him. And Sam is all that's left.

Frodo takes the first watch on the first night on their own, unable to quiet his thoughts. Sam protests, of course, but Frodo can see how weary he is after such a physically—not to mention emotionally—demanding day. Frodo is so empty that he even envies him the capacity for genuine distress.

He sits in the dark and thinks unceasingly, of everything from the Ring to longing for his bed at home, and of Bilbo, and those few foggy memories of his parents—it's been years since he's thought much of his parents, but for some reason they've been drifting through his mind of late. Something concerned with being thankful that they won't ever know the dominion of the Dark Lord.

And that leads him to thinking about the Shire itself, and how surprisingly terrifying it's certain doom seems anymore. Before the Quest Frodo had been somewhat frustrated with the Shire—as if it were an entity—for that way it had of rejecting the world all around it with its nose stuck up at ancient, beautiful cultures and the unknown in general. He had resented the people there a little, for being so content with their simple lives and simple days and simple thoughts. But now he wishes desperately to be able to stop his thoughts—that feeling of knowing shockingly too much about the world in the pit of his stomach.

There are times that Frodo's glad of the Ring. He's spent much of his life studying the heroes of the past, and the rest of it overshadowed by the likes of Bilbo or Gandalf or some of his more prestigious relations. And he's often felt guilty for not doing more—for doing _anything_ , really, with his life. And then felt guilty for having had such an easy life handed to him and still lingering on loneliness, although it was mostly because he wouldn't care to talk to most other hobbits.

But the Quest had given him a sense of purpose, a way to contribute to the world beyond the Shire and yet personally save the Shire, too. And maybe even be like a hero of old, a little bit, and become naturally valiant and—

Sam stirs in his sleep.

For all that the Ring might make Frodo feel relevant, at least half of his heart is twisted over the guilt of dragging Sam into the whole affair—over the way that Sam couldn't _not_ be there to help him.

Still, age and station and Sam's simple devotion make Frodo feel terribly, terribly responsible for him. Frodo looks back at him again and finds him awake.

"Rise and shine, Sam," Frodo says, wants to sound happy but it rings a little dull in his ears.

Sam scrutinizes, albeit sleepily. "You ought to take some rest, Mr. Frodo."

"I suppose."

He lets it go, sits up and rubs at his eyes. "The trees thin out up ahead, and then the real fun starts, I imagine. It looks a barren sort of place, if you ask me, and I don't know as . . ."

Something about Sam's tone of voice reminds Frodo sharply of Khazad-dûm, of after and above the dark chasms, in the grass and both of them bandaged and looking at each other without speaking. Cheating death time and again. It was another notch on this bond of blackness between them—unspeakably saddening things that impacted them both in such a way that they kept stumbling into each other for refuge. Gandalf, the Ring, the fear, the wonder of Lothlórien, the terrifying realization that they were no longer parallel to Mordor but headed due east.

"Begging your pardon, sir, but I've a feeling you're not doing much listening."

"I'm sorry, Sam. I'm just tired. What were you saying?"

Sam smiles, both fond and troubled. "That you need some sleep," he repeats.

But Frodo knows he can't sleep, not yet anyway. "We really ought to keep moving."

Sam just studies him for a minute before giving in. "All right."

They gather what little they have and head through the trees, many of them foreign species that prevent any wayward thoughts of familiarity, and the ground becoming hard and stony unlike the fertile turf of the Shire. They go on silently for a time and Frodo can sense Sam's worry all the while.

Frodo stops at the edge of a sharp hill, a precursor to the cliffs ahead. "Well! This does seem to be the final bit of woods, and then we'll be in the Emyn Muil. Somehow I'd thought we were farther away."

Sam catches up to him, and they're looking together in the same direction. "We've come a long way," he says, unintentionally significant-sounding.

Frodo watches him watching the fading trees, wonders what he's thinking. "Yes."

And indeed as they descend into the Emyn Muil there's no smell of new green things, nor even old dead things, nor hint of fallen rain or crispness of coming snow. It's a sapped, dreary land, and it looks like how Frodo doesn't feel.

It's not long before Sam blurts out, "It's too quiet here, and it makes me unsettled-like. It's a real solid quiet, too, and I don't know what to make of it, to be honest."

"No, you're right, Sam," Frodo says. "It isn't like the silence of Moria, for there were echoes, still, and in any case there have always been other people around to chatter here and there. But this is an unnatural sort of silence—no leaves to rustle, no birds or running water. It's a void of a place."

Sam frowns at him, something sad and foreign in his glance, and that in turn makes Frodo sad of it.

Before the Quest, he'd never thought of Sam as a person to confide in completely, never thought him capable of wisdom or astounding bravery. He'd enjoyed Sam's company, of course, but that didn't mean he didn't look down on him a bit just like he did every other hobbit save Bilbo or perhaps Merry. Frodo had never appreciated Sam truly, and now he's wracked with guilt about that on top of all the rest . . .

"Mr. Frodo?"

"Sam." Sam peers, and Frodo feels as bound to him as he is to the Ring. When had this happened? "You know I . . . you know that I would never ask this of you. Accompanying me as you are." It feels urgent that Sam know this.

Sam's puzzled. "I do know that, Mr. Frodo, but what kind of decent hobbit would I be if I didn't? I promised the Elves, of course, but it's not only that—I heard what the Council said back in Rivendell, sir, and I knew what I was getting into with the Fellowship and all, of course I did. And never mind that—how could I let you go off alone like this? I couldn't, obviously, not when I knew the sort of danger you'd be in."

"Still," Frodo protests. "This is _my_ task, Sam, and—"

"Begging your pardon, and I don't mean to be harsh about it, sir, but this is as much about saving the Shire as it is about following you. I'll help however I can if it means keeping everyone back home safe and sound. And just supposing you managed to take a wrong turn somewhere on the Road without me there to steer you back in the right direction . . . what kind of home would there be if you never came back? Or if I came back alone and something happened to you what I could've prevented . . ."

"Home," Frodo echoes. And he can remember what feelings or memories would have sprung up at the thought of it in the past, but lately he's hard-pressed to do more than remember remembering.

"Aye," Sam says. "And even though I miss it something terrible right now, I'd miss it a whole lot more if it were gone forever."

"I'm . . . yes, I _am_ homesick," Frodo says, realizing it for the first time even as he says it, talks slowly: "And it's odd because I've more often than not been sick _of_ home, if you understand me. The same places and the same people and the same simple worries, and it was never exciting enough for me, and I found life rather boring without a book in hand. But now all I want is to be bored."

Sam takes one of Frodo's hands between his own, doggedly comforting, and the way of it makes Frodo smile. "Home isn't something you can get sick of, Mr. Frodo. Why, certainly I get sick of things, but that's not the way of it—that's just things. Home isn't a place all by itself. Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in."

Frodo's face is starting to hurt from all this unaccustomed smiling. "That's lovely," Frodo says. "You're quite the poet, really, Sam. You ought to pen something whenever we return, that is, supposing we do return . . ."

He shakes Frodo's hand a little, then strokes a thumb over his wrist. "You stop that."

"Sam, it is highly unlikely we—"

"You don't think I know that? I'm not all _that_ daft, sir. I just don't know how I should go on if that was the only ending to the story, if you take my meaning. Whether it's true or not. That's the nature of hope, Mr. Frodo—it isn't the obvious thing, and it's not easy, it's something to be believed in, is all."

They've been stalling there in the first sad stretch of the Emyn Muil for a considerable time now, and Sam's touch is warm and good and Frodo in no way deserves it, so Frodo says, "Let's continue, shall we?"

Sam nods, holds on for another warm moment and Frodo has to be the one to break away, still feels connected to him even as they walk.

As much as an effort as it seems at times, interacting with Sam does soothe Frodo's sense of emptiness. And although his thoughts are kept at bay for a while, eventually the glow of it fades and the guilt creeps back to twist everything around.

Sam is far, far too good to him—constantly, astonishingly good. At first it's cheering, but once Frodo steps back and looks at it he feels wretchedly selfish, and the guilt of Sam being so naturally kind without even considering that Frodo has never considered _him_ an equal or even looked him in the eye truly until they'd seen the Elves for the first time at Woodhall, when suddenly it had occurred to Frodo that Sam wasn't half-wise at all.

In order to shoo away that line of thought he turns his overactive attention to the feeling of being watched— and Frodo knows very well that his paranoia is not unfounded, wonders how long it will be before Gollum finally does catch up with them, and what happened after that he couldn't say.

His loathing toward Gollum was complicated, and not merely rooted in some kind of ancestral scorn. If this creature had followed them so obsessively for so long, had scoured unfamiliar lands long before that in search of that which Frodo now bore, then exactly what sort of unfeeling unhappiness haunted _him_ , and how long before Frodo grew just as possessed by it?

Even now the very knowledge of the Ring secure around his neck makes Frodo feel relieved and confident and terrified about _not_ having it there. And if he feels that now, then how will he ever . . . ?

"Mr. Frodo?" Sam interrupts, like he senses just when to yank Frodo's wandering mind back to the present.

"Mm. Yes?" Frodo can't quite focus on him, still thinking about adjusting the chain around his neck and making sure the fluid gold band is still there and smooth and safe . . .

"Mr. Frodo," Sam says again, gets closer and shakes Frodo by the shoulder a little, but gently. "Maybe we ought to take a bit of rest before we go any further, perhaps have a bite to eat or summat."

Frodo nods.

Frodo's spirit improves after a few nourishing mouthfuls of the lembas bread, but as always it doesn't last for very long, and soon enough he's staring doubtfully at the daunting maze of rock before them. It seems unlikely that Aragorn, or even Legolas or Gandalf or someone, could have navigated it with much success, and the reality of their chances of coming out on the other side begins to set in.

Like he knows, Sam says, "Ah, it's just a couple of big old rocks, isn't it? We'll get through it all right, as long as we mind where we're headed. And anyway, it's not as though orcs are like to follow us through here, so there's that."

"Yes, I suppose you're right."

" _Stop that_ ," Sam says.

It startles him. "I beg your—"

"Stop thinking so much—it's not going to help anything. You're thinking yourself into exhaustion, sir, and you needn't."

"Sam, please don't worry about—"

Sam shifts closer to him, makes Frodo face him with his hands stilling Frodo's hands and with his honest open eyes, so full of feeling in a way that Frodo can scarcely comprehend anymore.

"You need to stop fretting about where we've landed ourselves, sir, because it won't change a thing. The longer you stew over something the more you believe it, and I know you don't want to trouble me, I do, but you can't keep it all inside like this anymore, or we're not getting much further at all, and that's the truth." Sam leans ever closer, like he's drawn to him against his will, like they have to be touching to remember who they are again.

And Frodo feels just as magnetized, becoming fed up with his lack of anything and craving beyond words the sense of life he gets from Sam. Feels guilty and desperate to abate it and make Sam understand . . .

Sam is so close, looks scared but powerless to turn away from him. Frodo lets out a shaky breath he hadn't been aware of holding in.

Sam looks down to say, "I won't let you leave me again, not even when I'm right here. I—"

Frodo says it all at once: "I know, I know, _I know_ , and I don't want to, and Sam, we're— _you_ —I have loved you since—Sam, I've—"

"Oh . . . I've loved you my whole life. Frodo."

Frodo doesn't know what to do other than kiss him, and the moment when Sam's sure hand moves to cup Frodo's jaw and he kisses back is like a burst of bright beauty in Frodo's chest.

Frodo's never kissed anyone like this before—not with that feeling like his whole body and his whole brain is compromised by the simple touching of their lips together. How he'd missed this tremulous turmoil of wants and regrets and happiness. Sam's hand at the back of his neck now and Frodo's senses interpret it as a wave of content.

Frodo has to tilt his head for more, and Sam moves to get closer and something about it throws them off balance—catch each other and have to look each other in the eye for a scary-real moment before Sam pulls him back in by the clasp of his cloak and it's just more kissing. Sam makes a delicious sound into it that sets Frodo's veins afire.

Sam's hands are like some otherworldly entity, summoning up goosebumps and heat with every touch. All Frodo can do is kiss him back, kiss him against that convenient slab of rock behind them and bury his fingers in Sam's hair while Sam makes a helpless sound and clutches at him.

Frodo feels entirely a flame, heart beating and gut twisting with want or relief or anxiety. He's got to memorize Sam now before he forgets about him, too—lets his fingers fall to touch his face and chest and lower. Sam gasps their lips asunder and Frodo can't breathe at all, not when faced with Sam's clear arousal and his half-lidded everycolor eyes burning at him, like Frodo is Sam's entire world. Frodo kisses him quiet and indistinct, fumbling with the fastenings of Sam's breeches.

Sam seems to recover after a moment, takes back control of the kiss with his hand at the back of Frodo's the neck and his tongue sliding languidly into Frodo's mouth. Frodo moans about it and quite forgets what he was doing . . .

Sam takes the opportunity to push Frodo back a bit, rearranges them so Frodo's more or less straddling him and kisses his neck distractingly while making short work of Frodo's breeches. He nudges their mouths back together just in time to swallow Frodo's moan when his hands find his erection.

It's frantic and wonderful and so mindlessly full of feeling that Frodo is sure it can't be real, kisses Sam like his kiss is solace and fumbles to reciprocate and Sam moans into his mouth while they speed their rhythms. The world narrows to terrifyingly simple feeling and it's over much too fast. Frodo cries out when he finds release, gasps into Sam's neck until Sam follows over the edge with him.

And it's all come crashing down so fast that the need should have vanished, but Frodo only finds it has solidified. They stay there, frozen in time as if to preserve it, sharing breath with sweaty foreheads pressed together and hair and heartbeats meshing.

Nothing seems to need to be said between them anymore, and after a decent rest they resume their march, Frodo's thoughts relenting for the present.

After a couple of hours of walking through the dreary lifeless rocks, Sam stops and sighs. "We're still lost."

Frodo nods, because they are lost, but he feels more at home than he ever has.

*


End file.
